Remember Me
by Oh Prudence
Summary: It started with a reintroduction by Albus, a whisked away weekend, and a never-ending cataclysm of strong opinions, but who was she kidding? There was always something between them.
1. Prologue

**REMEMBER ME  
** by Oh Prudence

Inspired by Thomas Bergersen's composition of the same title.

* * *

"I had come face to face  
with someone who's mere  
personality was so fascinating that,  
if I allowed it to do so,  
it would absorb my whole nature,  
my whole soul,  
my very art itself."

-Oscar Wilde

* * *

PROLOGUE

* * *

 **November 2031**

On his third evening in the UK, he's scattered with a madman's passion, the feelings of three years ago returning and burning all reasoning left in his skull. Gone was the collected gentleman he portrayed himself to be, and in its place, a nervous wreck to see Her again. A hand runs along slicked hair, the eighth time that evening, before fiddling for a box of cigarettes in his blazer pocket. He lights, drags, and disposes of the thing before anyone sees, especially Nana Molly, and the punch in his lungs provides all the warmth he needs.

He's in the last place he'd ever thought he'd be - all while his eyes watch animated photographs of a lifespan dancing before his eyes.

He's never been more envious of pictures.

Never, in the twenty-four almost twenty-five years of his life, did he ever find himself in his current position—dragon-skin boots rooted firmly in what his grandfather once called a "pigsty", surrounded in a left behind grime of a Sunday roast dinner, and feeling a disbelieving jealousy thanks to a huge pictorial arrangement strung haphazardly above the Burrow's single fireplace. To his recollection, the Malfoy Manor contained a singular album, a tattered leather-bound inheritance stashed in his father's study, embodying the embarrassment of the Malfoy lineage compared to what he thinks is Arthur and Molly Weasley's great ancestral display.

Two photos in particular captivate him at the Burrow that day.

He becomes a man enhanced by history.

To the left is a photo of a nine year old toothy girl and her father, greying hairs on the eldest—a once youthful hairline rests above a crinkled forehead while his daughter wears a shit-eating grin, presumably soaking in her childhood position of Daddy's favorite.

The innocence of the two's coordinated laughter is a stark contrast to the second picture that grasps his attention. The old Him and Her. He'd recognize those faces anywhere—they were young once, and beautiful, and destined for nothing.

Arms intertwine around bodies, a strength in the man's hand holds her waist firmly. Her burgundy nails compliment the diamond on her left hand and rests across the man's crisp suit, and the flash of a firm line mirroring her father's runs across her mouth and changes into a plastered smile within seconds. He, on the other hand, keeps solemn and watches the girl in his arms carefully.

He remembers when that photo was taken, and he remembers it like it was yesterday—Daminia Malfoy, bless his sweet step-mum, was neurotic all morning, though the epitome of perfection nestled in her backyard garden. Wisteria vines framing the lengths of wooden archways and fading hydrangeas of youthful lavender and drunken citrine transformed his childhood home from a cold nest into one holding all the warmth and potential in the world.

Or it was supposed to.

By the end of that day, the final conclusion burned its mark, ugly across their hearts: as long as they remained side by side, smiles were never destined to reach the eyes, were they?

He remembers it a little too perfectly. He remembers when she took off that ring and he let her slip through his fingers, deluding himself this is what she wanted, she never asking him if it'd be enough. He tucked fate that day into to the box of endless what-if's he hadn't dared explored since the summer Astoria Malfoy died.

The potential, the what-ifs, the forbidden phenomena…

He remembers the time when he wasn't afraid anymore, years later.

He was no longer scared shitless.

He was also too late.

In the course of three summers, he figured out the hard way what internal war and heartbreak did to you: made you grow up, and it was merciless if you weren't ready, and uncaring if it started a second war between the head and the heart.

He remembers every detail and God, does he wish to forget. The images forming in his mind are cut when he hears voices nearing and the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. He's brought back to the present: him standing in the middle of the Burrow. He toughens up and remembers why he's here.

His fingers smooth the lines of his midnight blazer—this is it. Noises thinned into a faint reverberation, and he hears a person pause behind him. He doesn't need to question who. Seconds later, a woman's voice, a voice he remembers too well on drunken nights, and one he decides in that minute too late he wasn't brave enough yet to hear.

 _Oh fuck it, Malfoy, you can do this._

"Scorpius?"

He stiffens immediately. He can't.

 **-:-**

 _May 29, 2029_

 _Rosie,_

 _There's a shop I pass every morning here in what American Muggles call Brooklyn.  
It's a used bookshop, and before you go off about my preference for more  
refined things, I entered the store because it had you written all over it.  
When you said you'd given a piece of yourself to me while I'm away,  
I didn't think you meant your voice…  
I could hear your nagging voice, woman, urging me to go in. _

_I'm kidding, woman. You know I bloody love you._

 _I'm glad I did stop in. Currently, there's two copies of Dickens  
lying atop my bed ready to join your collection at home.  
Nothing compares to waking up next to you, my love, but this city's sunrise  
does alright when I'm not next to your side. You'd love New York.  
You'll love falling in love with the streets, the air, the people…_

 _I'll take you one day. I promise this, and so, so much more._

 _How does stretching our global tour to include the Mid-Atlantic sound?  
I look forward to seeing you next week._

 _Forever yours,  
Scorpius_

 **-:-**

The flask bordered empty by the time Albus finally spat it out.

They'd been in her room, downing Jameson, both anxiously awaiting the reunion – for Albus, a best mate… for Rose, so, so much more.

She should've known better; she should've seen Al's purposed avoidance of her all week. The man never knew how to keep a secret, and his punctual disappearance every time she walked into the room should've been an indicator.

"Rosie…"

The chestnut curly-haired man fidgets his fingers, twenty-five years old and undying of a childhood habit, nervous at the informational unload he'd set on her.

"I'm sorry to have sprung this _now._ Merlin, I should've told you sooner. Are you…"

Her eyes and mind trapped in an unforgiving haze, she stands on her feet, surprising herself with unaltered balance after what her cousin tells her. She thinks she hears Al ask if she was alright, but by the time he's finishes, she's halfway shuffled out the room.

She passes through the upstairs foyer, and Louis, a wrinkle between his forehead and leaning against a banister, sends a sympathetic nod as she approaches.

He'd known too.

Rose descends the stairs, feet heavy and threatening to trip themselves. She can't believe it.

Lily's ignorant chatter follows her with each downward step but fades away quickly. Maybe Louis stopped her.

Her fingertips reach the wide entryway, and she's not ready to see him, but before she stops her legs from walking in any further, she spots his immaculate posture, heightened while his gaze is intensely captivated by the slew of pictures she and Dominique strung together so many summers ago.

"Scorpius?"

Her voice deceives her, channeling a braver front than she lets on, one that'll fade any second. Her eyes say differently. She refuses to meet his stunned stare as he watches her carefully and instead focuses on the mismatched linen drapes behind him.

She thinks she hears him swallow before he greets her:

"Hello, Rose."

With a decade of friendship and more buried deep between them, even with time passed, they were past formal cordiality.

Exchanged _how are you's_ and whatnots happen in eleven climatic seconds, and on the twelfth, she pounces:

"Is it true?" The alcohol fuels curtness in her voice.

It catches him off-guard, but he's still staring at her beautifully, and he stands before her unbent and seemingly unbroken, a crystal contrast from three years ago. Calm, cool, and collected. He's no longer _her_ Scorpius. He's no longer the juvenile boy bending backwards when it came to Rose Weasley, no longer the fool Rose Weasley shaped him to be willing to throw everything and anything away for her.

"I'm s-sorry." She catches her audacity, and she looks down at her hands and shakes her head, and she dares herself to go on.

"But…I thought… I needed to know?" It comes in a question, but she decides to keep pushing though her voice becomes a stranger, quivering and without strength.

He clears his throat, and he knows it's obvious he can't bear to meet her eyes. Damn it, he's a Malfoy, and he's supposed to have better composition than this, but his tongue can't find the monologue he rehearsed hours ago. His hand meets the stubble on the side of his face, knowing full-well he should explain himself, but he doesn't.

He won't.

And with a last minute notion, he decides fuck it, he doesn't owe Rose Weasley anything.

"Yes. It is true."

He is monotonous, and she lifts her head to see what his face says otherwise, and when their eyes lock and exchange for the first time in a year, she regrets it instantly.

Rose is stunned, shocked, and her feet betray her, edging closer and nearer to him, but she freezes and feels her heart meet her stomach after what he says next:

"I'm getting married, Rose."

A breath is released, and her smile is a mix of euphoric relief and sharp-toothed sadness.

The question being, which was greater?

* * *

One autumn night, a Firewhiskey night, she fell asleep wrapped in his jacket. She smelled him on her for days—cedar and cigarettes clouded her mind for a time, but what they hoped for was a fair-weather friend. With a lack of letters and personal exchanges, the smell of him turned into a memory of crashing waves waiting to be explored on vulnerable nights.

It started with a reintroduction by Albus, a whisked away weekend, and a never-ending cataclysm of strong opinions, but who was she kidding? There was always something between them. He crept on her slowly, and he radiated cold, and over the course of a decade, she watched his spine mold his soul into a man's whose seen much further than he should have. She remembers his hands on her for the first time. He was acid, and she melted underneath him.

Together they were a paradox, a magnetic collision of right and wrong fated to explode into confetti you threw away in the end. They could never last, and they never made sense, but he owed her his life, and she owed him hers, and in the moments during she always asked him why _._

 _Why should we be together?_

She asked, and he answered.

 _Why the hell not?_


	2. Part I: Chapter One

_Author's Note: This will be separated into two parts: Part I is set before the Prologue, and Part II happening after. Chapter-wise, each one will be taking place within the time-span of a month or so - though I probably won't be doing continuous months. Thanks for reading! Please leave a review if you enjoyed! X_

* * *

 _PART I_

"I cannot fix on the hour,  
or the spot, or the look or the words,  
which laid the foundation.  
It is too long ago.  
I was in the middle before  
I knew that I had begun."

-Jane Austen

* * *

 **ONE: DYNAMICS  
** _or "January"_

* * *

When Scorpius Malfoy was a boy, partial to the height of his father's knee, he watched his first Quidditch match with enthusiasm in his stance and eyelids unblinking and oblivious to the anxiety of his mother who stood beside him. Never had he witnessed a rambunctious sight, swirled in the background and uproar of striped faces and ageless spirit, his five year old self decided then and there he'd very much like to be a part of it.

 _A beater, in fact._

Then came the day, Astoria Malfoy with a trembling hand levitated a present, oblong in length, at his feet. Having bargained with his mother over the years that he was well-acquainted with all safety precautions, her son, now nine, knew instantly the box contained a broomstick. Scorpius was joyous in soul and unbreakable in flight and another chance of cutting ties with the Malfoy stereotype existed between his two front teeth.

 _He'd play pro one day. He knew he could do it. The first Malfoy ever to do so._

Yet in his mother existed truth, a final wish was to instill it in him. _Please, Scorpius, know that a day will come when winning won't always mean happiness. Be ready. And be strong._ She'd rest a frail hand on his shoulder, and confirm understanding between her saturnine eyes and his zealous and blue, and she'd kiss him on the cheek and resume the portrait of a proud mother during every game.

The month after third year ends is when she stops reminding and stops attending games and stops being altogether.

Astoria died and his heart crashed.

He aged rapidly, and his swings became heavier, more volatile, and his persona mirrored the same. Unforgiving in nature and characteristics of steel, the press dubbed him a version of his father's tortured, young self.

 _How far? How dark will the Malfoy boy go?_

So it goes, he lost himself, and the entire wizarding press glimpsed a tale of a happy childhood terminating. He hated how flowers grew in the spring and his mother wilted underneath. He hated how the earth moved on and he could not. Every branch of hate was met equally in fist. He no longer took pleasure with crowds; he no longer sought recognition even if he was 'Malfoy, that phenomenal fourth year on a broom'.

A day came when he's recognized, not because of fame but worry. Not from a friend, barely an acquaintance. He'd been leaning against Borgin and Burke's, father within discussing property taxes, and caught how Rose Weasley's brow furrowed too perfectly for as young as she was. She was pretty, and she was staring. And she kept staring unabashed and intrigued, cat in her arms absentmindedly petting it.

 _Weasley. Roses. Perhaps, a coincidence._

He wasn't sure if he liked them. White ones decorated his mother's gravestone.

And a conclusion was decided when he witnessed Ron Weasley open his mouth and whisper a warning to his daughter:

"I know what you're going to do, Rose. Don't even think about it."

He too would stay away.

Between the moments of sleep and dreams, he'd lie awake and wonder, recklessly and every night, when he'd learn to feel again. If he'd learn to feel again. If. Maybe. He began to will himself. He began to find himself, slow yet rising, through the embrace of his father, the scent of ancient textbooks, an ephemeral word or two amongst old friends. He learned to laugh with fervor and speak with worth. Mostly, he learned to love flying again. And as he bettered, Rose Weasley's hallway casts of apprehension became fewer and fewer until she became a memory likened to appear once in a while. They never knew the other's thoughts nor soul, but he convinces himself he'd done her proud when she gives him a farewell nod at graduation.

A year out of Hogwarts sees him a changed man. Philosophical in nature, and agility and speed at their finest peak by the time the Falcons recruit him. Years after, he's representing England National as second beater against Bulgaria during the 2026 World Cup.

His mother's words, lost and found through the years, reappeared in the last minutes of the game – a reminder reincarnated through a bludger. Twice he's aimed at. Both striking their goal – his left shoulder, and the third hit creates a sickening symphony of crunching bones and shouts of pain and no control, and sends his Firebolt crashing into the ground seconds after the snitch is caught.

England won.

Sixteen days into the New Year, he becomes the world's youngest retired beater and meets one Rose Weasley at Heathrow Airport.

* * *

 **2027**

* * *

She meets him at Arrivals, and how they begin starts with an unnecessary reintroduction by Al.

"You two know each other, right? Rosie, you know Scorpius."

"Yes, of course I remember." Rose Weasley answers her cousin's question hurriedly, pinkish knowing those words are the first sentence she's spoken to Malfoy in years. Scorpius holds out his hand and her palm slides into his, fitting. "We did patrol together, a few times if I believe."

 _Silent times_ , she wants to add.

"Rose, how are you?" A warmth wrapped around a baritone voice surprises her, and kindness resides in lines under his eyes, against his forehead where severity once lay.

"I'm doing well thank you. It's been a while." She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ears. "And you? How were your holidays?"

His exhale is breathy and indifferent. "They were alright; I'm recovering."

Though optimistic in voice, his fingers rub the back of his neck. "The healers wouldn't let me portkey, said it'd be hell on my shoulder with all the moving. And Muggle transportation was the only option, so here we are."

"I didn't expect to see you here." Scorpius inquires. Her mind imagines he says it coldly, but she meets his eyes, without malice yet beckoning, and Rose becomes hopeful.

"I—uh, had a follow-up interview at the Ministry. Thought I'd tag along since Al can't exactly drive a car either."

"So. How was the flight?" Al, used to her jests by now, chimes in. He clasps his friend's shoulder lightly, the good one, scoops Scorpius' belongings over his back and the three of them head towards the exit.

"It was alright. Not too long. Juniper – you've met her, Al, at the Scamanders' party – flew with me. Said she'll be in town for a few weeks before the season starts again."

The corner of Al's mouth lifts, the start of a smirk begins to appear. "Ah, Juuune! Such a nice girl. Excellent Chaser too." He wiggles his brows. "You going to visit her?"

Rose tilts her head to watch them, impassively, and Scorpius answers: "No."

"You know I've never flown on an airplane before. Always wondered what that's like."

"Bullshit, Potter." Scorpius cracks at his friend's forgetfulness. "You went on one in second year. Your father took all of you to Hungary."

"That's right! The year he wouldn't shut up about being an arm's length from a dragon." Rose continues to lead them towards her car. "I swear, even Uncle Neville was about to threaten your arse out of class if he heard another word of it. And the poor guy even went with you."

"Man, I forgot about that." Al snorts.

"But to be fair, Rose. He had to use it as cover since he couldn't even be an arm's length from a girl without stuttering. You know Rita Zabini? Took him twenty minutes to ask her out. She ended up asking for him, and then, rejecting."

Two shouts emerge: one's a protest, a blame that he'd gotten the story all wrong, while the other eggs him to go on.

For the first leg of the drive, Al amidst dubious contradiction manages to set the record straight regarding Rita. Every now and then, Scorpius has Rose clutching her stomach in laughter retelling the likes of his and Al's unfortunate adventures at school. And Al, muffled from the rear and on a business call with Fred, shouts at least twice Rose's eyes remain on the road.

 _And not on Scorpius' cock._

He desperately wants to add, yet he keeps watching this little exchange from the backseat.

He saw it the moment they stepped into Heathrow—

A replica of a childhood fascination sewn in Rose's features, he'd witnessed once in adolescence, is painted by time, by each second she's in Scorpius' company. A little shit he may be, he loved Rose and he respected Rose, and out of said affections, Al would smile a knowing smile with a dimple molded into chin as the other two conversed ahead. He'd return to his business and answer Freddie's questions over the phone regarding stock inventory and he'd play a dupe's role willingly.

To Rose, Scorpius is an enigma. He'd always looked the part with silver irises unveiling a plethora of meanings; he'd always symbolized the precise point of elite. Yet the sporadic pops of color: a hoop in his ear, a five o'clock shadow highlighting sunken cheekbones, the scar on the left side of a Roman nose, a gentleness in his movement hiding an assuming boldness – those were the unpredictables.

And true to nature, Scorpius surprises the both of them, the last of the day, when he kisses Rose's cheek after she's parked in front of Al's shared flat shocking the woman in mention and her cousin. And Al, acting heedless as can be, drops the pen he'd been holding, jaw slackening while Fred on the end of his line asking if he's still there, and momentarily forgets to feign invisibility.

He witnesses his best mates—

Scorpius' hand is on the hood of the car with his body shielding hers, his head drooped to level, and a slight movement of his shoulder allows Al to see Rose's compromising position. He whispers to Fred over the phone he'll call him back when he spots noses almost touching and fingers bare and ghosting. And Al begins to overhear: Scorpius asking when he'll see her next, and Rose stating she needed to prepare for her new position so she doesn't know. A hint is understood, and quickly as it happened, Scorpius backs away. Distance is placed where distance should've been, and stoic as can be, he shakes her hand before lifting his bags from the ground and walking away.

Al's unsure what he saw.

During the last days of the month, mornings would begin with dancing sunbeams and the faintest trace of warmth. A glimpse, a preview of the spring before weather regressed to brute and ice. Those instances never failed in offering respite, Rose supposes, and throughout the years derived to the same conclusion that the small beats of hope the January sun gave her signified some meaning even when said meaning hid itself.

Scorpius Malfoy was back in her life, and she doesn't know what it means.

 **-:-**

 _You were fifteen. It was just a crush, Rose._

She reminds herself when it's her first day as one of fifteen members within the Auror's Investigative branch, and she overhears gossip in the women's loo he's accepted a position within the Office, and how positively gorgeous he's grown to be since Hogwarts. She tells herself it doesn't matter, one night at a bar, and she hears from James that Scorpius did in fact fuck June Larson on their flight, and James guffaws it doesn't faze him Scorpius is in London again, and she's blaming whiskey for nausea. She tells herself it doesn't matter she and Scorpius spiral backwards, when they collide in mutual circles and they're out with friends and they've returned to casual nods over dinner tables while her boyfriend's arm hung around her shoulder. She tells herself it doesn't matter, as it very well doesn't, every time Everett Macmillan is beneath her and her pelvis grinds below desperate for more friction, for release, for freedom.

"Rose…" Everett groans one night after a particularly distressing day at work. "I want to marry you."

Rose was a practical woman, a girl who'd never been swayed of fairy-tales, who much preferred the likes of Dicken's narratives and Austen subtlety and Hemingway reality growing up. Though her imagination was unlimited in scenarios and intertwining paths, it never occurred to her she'd receive her first semi-marriage proposal from her boyfriend's lips, arse-naked with him inside her, limp.

"Darling, did you hear me?" In the bleak of night, he booms in darkness. Never could he blend into the background, and ironically, that's what she fell in love with first.

"I did, Ev." She whispers.

Everett places a kiss in the concave of her back, pulls himself out, and leaves his knee caressing her thigh.

"And…well, what do you think, Rose?" A hesitancy exists in his voice, foreign to Macmillan's usually boisterous character.

She croaks, face buried in her pillow. "I love you too."

Rose Weasley was no liar, and she loved him so, and her response satisfies him enough to kiss her forehead and wrap himself before greeting his sleep. She hated the way he left her lying awake on most nights to thoughts and demons.

As a young girl, Rose was not brave as much as she was curious, and was restless for a resolution more than she was a dreamer. She was inquisitive, and what she started, she finished. And this attitude towards life, her mother would say, coiled her into endless predicaments. _Your nosiness will get the best of you._ Hermione would shake her head at her daughter, amused and impressed, and ironic being that Rose replicated her mother more than being stubborn like her father in will.

 _Why did he have to fucking kiss me?_

That night, she mouths the words barely and to no one while Everett lies still beside her.

She labels Scorpius Malfoy as a prodigal captivation, and she supposes it resurfaced in the first place because everything having a beginning, must have an end. And Rose decides, when she pours her morning coffee the next day before work that she and Scorpius would become friends, and their friendship would end the drumming in her imagination.

-:-

James and Joan.

Joan and James.

No two people breathed as they who were similar in ferocity and different in tenacity. One year ahead of her at Hogwarts, Rose watched and witnessed such mechanisms between the two, pestering each other whenever in proximity, and respecting and praising the likes whenever recognition was due.

"The coral ones need to go here! Alright, James?! _JAMES_!" Joan Chang-Nott is screeching, pink tinges a pale complexion, while she carries a dozen balloons toward one of eight tables. "You're ruining the color scheme!"

James shouts primitively: "Goddamit, woman! How am I bloody ruining it? It's all the same fucking pink!" And he follows her anyway.

Entertained by this distraction, Rose sits atop a wooden picnic table, a lengthy charmeuse skirt butterscotch in color twirls about her feet, and mentally thanks her cousin-in-law Phillip for placing a heating charm throughout the Burrow's gardens.

"My God, are they at it again? Half the guests have already asked if she's his fiancé." A feminine concern voices behind her.

Lucy Beckett, with gentle pale yellow curls and beige lace draped in layers along her body, cannot hide her protruding belly for the life of her, no matter how slimming the dress. The Beckett curse, she claimed.

Rose can only snort. "The Finnegan sisters and the Remington's don't count, Luce. Their entire families are dafter than Skeeter's front page news. I bet they actually do believe you're giving birth to a kneazle."

"Shh!" Lucy giggles wildly and motions for her to scoot, and Rose imagines they're six and ten again sneaking into Ministry galas, clad in their mother's old dresses and lasting until an older family member caught them. "They'll hear you! I didn't want them to attend," she explains. "But Mols insisted they be invited for courtesy's sake. I don't really see why though… it's _my and Phillip's_ shower." Though Lucy speaks with audacity, she cups her hand lovingly over her belly, and Rose can't think of a more beautiful sight.

From her days as a young girl, the Weasley's were infamous for being tight-knit, being each other's best defenders and protectors, and when Head Girl Lucy Weasley came home boyfriend in hand and announced she was pregnant, the Burrow erupted in chaos. Percy, unveiling if he was more appalled at the revelation he'd be a grandfather than the flagrant matter of his unmarried daughter, and George toasting the pompadour-styled, leather jacket wearing Phillip Beckett for being the one who pulled the stick halfway out his brother's arse.

And now, contrary to the likes of Audrey and Lucy's sister, no one is startled when the couple, expecting the birth of their second, announced the shower would be co-ed.

As James shouts something unintelligible to Joan, a faint 'pop' appears, nearby to where the women are seated, and the first thing Rose spots are a pair of men's immaculate dragon-skinned boots.

"Will you two, please, for the love of fucking Merlin, shut the hell up? You do realize you're in public right? Everyone can hear you from inside and that's _with_ the charms I've put up." Every word is composed and ironclad, and a riffle of dare dances to and from the man's cerulean eyes as he speaks.

"You losing your touch then, Beck?" James matches deeply, a sneer is visible from the yard's opposing side. "I knew Dad went easy on your arse during training!"

Returning the passing humor, Phillip Beckett bites his lower lip and flicks a finger at his cousin-in-law, making Joan laugh towards the sky in the process. Phillip turns completely and dotingly towards Lucy.

"My love. How is our dear Ackedelia?"

"For the last time, we decided she's Florence!"

He hums mischievously, places a kiss full of chaste and meaning on his wife's forehead, the beatitude to top all, before turning to Rose and asking how she is.

And after answering, and after inquiring how his last Hit mission went, it is then that Rose excuses herself, voiding a wedge between the two, and fuses into a vortex of pink skies and murmuring guests and a confetti of celebration. Food trays vanish and gifts are opened and dusk turns into night.

She stays close to Joan towards the end of it all, the two basking in January's breeze atop the same picnic table she shared with Lucy earlier.

"I didn't see Everett. He couldn't make it?"

Joan catches her off-guard.

"I actually didn't tell him."

"You didn't?" Her friend whispers in disbelief, lowers her plate.

"Figured this wasn't something that'd interest him." Rose extends a hand out towards the varying shades of shiny carmine balloons, and muslin cloths and satin ribbons in jade and yellow, floating magically above them all pointing to a cloudy 'Welcome Baby Florence' written in the sky.

"Everything looks beautiful, Joan."

Rose is given a smile. "Thank God Lucy's not into those weird baby games. First baby shower I've ever organized, and same goes for James, I won't be surprised if this is his last too. Say, you know where that tosser went?" She spins around, and scans the crowd, waft of her black hair flows behind.

"He scrammed a while ago." Rose snorts. "Right after Teddy plastered Luce's nipple shields on his back with a sticking charm. Think some of the boys went with."

Joan shrugs casually and pops a pretzel into her mouth. "Probably gone to see Margarethe." She continues chewing.

A quiet resides, and Rose gets lost in stimulation of the crowd. Weasleys and Potters, in shapes and shades of red and brown and blonde, are scattered everywhere and she notes the roaring crimson firecrackers against a black sky signify this isn't any regular baby shower. Another excuse for a family fiasco.

A boy, no older than two, stumbles towards them. Joan with her free hand scoops him.

"Bud, you ready to go?"

Jude, quite the charming roly-poly of a boy, wordlessly waves to Rose behind his mother's shoulder, and her friend shoots a word over her shoulder encouraging her not to be a stranger before joining her mother Cho and disapparating.

Was it wrong not passing the invite down to Everett, her boyfriend?

The final question of the evening.

Mind, they'd been dating for nearly four years, and in that beat of time, she can count on a single hand alone how often, how keen he'd attended family gatherings. She slumps without answer, a chill of winter returns and traces her shoulders, and in the deadbeat of night, she watches: the Beckett's have now retired to one corner of the patio, burrowed into each other and Rose can't tell whose arm is where; her brother Hugo, surrounded by a flock of the school-aged cousins; the older women, including her mother, chatting loudly amongst themselves – Firewhiskey in Victoire's hand as she pours and spills here and there.

"Rose?"

A rustle sounds behind her.

Feet shuffle faintly, quiet, but her mind erupts in sirens. She doesn't have to guess; she already knows who's there because she'd realized, all along she'd underestimated how strange, how frightening her fascination with him truly is.

"How are you?" Scorpius murmurs.

She can't be the only one who feels it. He must feel it too. Fear and wonder warped into one.

It's the same question he asked a month ago, and nothing's changed and not waiting for her answer, he asks: "You mind if I sit here?"

He points with his jaw cautiously toward the bench beneath her barefoot feet.

"I didn't even notice you lot escaped." Rose teases meekly and motions for him to sit. "You three just get back?"

She sees his breath in the cold when he chuckles and leans forward, and rests his elbows on his knees. "A few minutes ago. Marg's been pinging me all afternoon, asking about James. Started pestering Al eventually. Finally, we had it and dragged his arse there."

Rose's face scrunches, silently asking Scorpius why: "They had another row… needed to be sorted." He rubs his temples. "Someone must've made a big deal to Marg that James and Joan planned the shower together. Too jealous, that one, not good for her."

"Margarethe doesn't strike as the jealous type." Rose offers.

And he huffs, fingers digging in his pocket for a cigarette. "You don't know her that well." He lights and he begins tapping a rhythm with his foot. "She's a prima donna. Aunt Daphne spoiled her growing up." He pauses, shaking his head in disagreement and chooses how to proceed carefully: "I wouldn't mind, you know?"

"Mind what?" She finds him studying her.

"If he left Marg. For Joan of course."

"Nonsense, James and Joan are just friends."

"Pssh!" He puffs, shoulders rise in amusement. "You don't actually _believe_ _that_ do you?"

"They _are_ friends."

"Please, Weasley." He drags. "It's all in the way he looks at her."

"Really. All in the way he looks? Couldn't tell he was looking more than he's rolling his eyes at her."

"It's called sexual tension." Scorpius twists his fingers. "James may not be matured, but he's smitten. And from the way he talks, he acts like he's about to waste his years away by marrying a complete troll. There are…" He can't find the right words and he takes the stick out of his mouth. "There are sparks between them, Rose." He snaps his fingers vividly.

"Sparks? Now you're bullshitting." She bites her inner cheek, disbelieving and grinning. "You don't actually _believe that_ do you?"

"What, have you never felt sparks before?"

Rose releases a breath. "Sure, if that's what you call them. When Everett and I first began dating," voice deceiving her body's tension. But he's listening with such intensity, so she continues: "I did feel these 'sparks'. But you know, from a scientific viewpoint, there are studies suggesting these butterflies, or these sparks as you call them, are all a part of a chemical reaction when first coming in contact with a new being. It's not well-known in the wizarding world, but Muggle science has some though limited explanations on account. It's all very fascinating."

He chuckles darkly. "Good God, Rose, you are such a Ravenclaw."

"Oh no," she prolongs. "Don't make fun of me."

"Who said I'm making fun? I admire it."

"Do you now?"

He licks his bottom lip again. She's pushed him into admittance: "Yeah, I do."

And so within the next few seconds, Rose knows she'll cross a line, and she knows bravery isn't her strong suit, but she'll dare anyway: "And when, _if_ you have… have you felt sparks, Scorpius?"

"With you."

He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't look away, and it terrifies her. And without shame, he goes:

"In sixth year. The night we slept together."

Rose breaks first; Scorpius' face, too severe for her. Had he planted this all along? How he maneuvered their conversation, how he made a pedestal out of confessions. She thinks so because this isn't light like she hoped, it's not romantic; it's terrifying and ingenious, and she's not cut out for this. She's no Gryffindor, but she's asked for it and knowing Scorpius from afar through the years, he won't hold back.

And she won't either, and so she provokes him:

"You were my first."

"And you were mine."

How he can look so laid-back under a penumbra of nighttime confessions, her lungs twists and chokes, and she, unruly in hair, accidental in revelation, baring herself to him more than she's ever done to another soul in the fewest possible words. She's naked and whole all at once, and she can't decide if she likes it or not. They speak no more about the subject. Under the stars he scrutinizes for the last time what's in front of him. Careful and self-preserving, and he knows nothing more will come of that night. So he breathes in defeat, and he crouches down and slips her shoes on.

"I'll see you at work, Rose."

Twice that month Scorpius Malfoy walks away from her. Like Everett, Scorpius leaves her staring into the night sky drawing the connection from thoughts to demons and back again between constellations. Like Everett, he's another boy, another heart who leaves her another open-ended silent confession. She falls asleep hours later after she refuses... no, _dares_ not to think about how Scorpius is a page out of an Austen novel unlike Everett.


End file.
